Lost
by kumamoto
Summary: Sydney's S3 internal struggle


I started this awhile back and forgot about it... may return to it as the details of S3 continue unfolding.  
  
*****  
  
8:00 pm.. You can't stay at work any longer tonight. All the extra hours you're been clocking while not in the field are beginning to look suspicious...to your father, to Dixon, and you dare to wonder if Vaughn's noticed too, that you never leave before he does. You put your car in drive and mechanically will yourself to go. Forward. Home.  
  
You think back to the day the real estate agent, Sue, had said she thought she'd found a place that might suit you. It was the third place she showed you, and Sue was unnecessarily determined in her sales pitch. You nodded politely, only half paying attention as Sue gushed about Norwegian wood and sleek Scandinavian design. Before you'd even finished the walk-through, you knew. "Great. I'll take it." The place was beautiful, but your real attraction was that it was so minimalist... so impersonal. And you knew you could leave it that way without incurring the questions that might arise if a more traditional home was left bare.  
  
Most of the material objects you'd held any attachment to were lost in the fire anyway, you told yourself. Besides, Francie had been the real interior decorator anyway. Francie. She'd been your only real female friend since your CIA life had begun. What you wouldn't give to reach out to her right now– to dip into some of the comfort and joy that had always been such easy facets of all that was Francie. But of course she was gone, like so many other of the most important elements in your former life. Dead. And even if she hadn't been like Danny and Will– a collateral damage– a casualty of your double life, surely you couldn't have pranced back into her life two years after your funeral.  
  
You don't bother with a microwave meal tonight. A tall glass of water, a banana, and four shots of vodka do the trick.. Despite several hours of trying to relax, when midnight comes you're nowhere near being able to fall asleep. You double knot your shoelaces and snap a pair of headphones over you ears. You've adopted this habit lately. Jogging in the dead of night. The sense of solitariness is amazing. Trance-like. You think about everything and nothing all at once.  
  
As your feet hit the pavement your mind drifts back to a time in college. Second semester of freshman year: a girl named Lisa was moved into the vacant dorm room down the hall. Her arrival was accompanied by a wave of speculation and judgement.  
  
"She's crazy," someone casually assessed.  
  
"Oh she's weird." "She's beautiful, but she's a messed up girl."  
  
"Personally, I think she's hopeless case. Brilliant, but with one of those self-destructive complexes, you know?"  
  
Lisa always kept to herself, kept odd hours, and seemed to write in her journal even more often than you did. You'd made a conscious effort to show Lisa compassion: a kind smile in the hallway, holding the elevator, but you never understood her. Not back then, anyway. You remember once in the bathroom, side by side at the sinks, you couldn't stop yourself from seizing her wrist and pulling her forearm into view. "Lisa," you'd said ever so seriously. "You need help. Promise me you'll get help." You remember her weary eyes. Is that how your eyes are now? Is that what people see when they look too closely at you? You're afraid it's so.  
  
2:00 am. You twist your wet hair into a ponytail and yank on a pair of pink pajamas. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and notice the contrast of a large bruise on the smooth skin of your shin. It's rather ironic... how you've always retained your feminine elements long after becoming field rated. After you'd killed. After you'd been tortured. You still wear perfume and keep your fingernails nicely groomed. You eye a pack of cigarettes and a lighter sitting on your dresser. Of course you don't smoke, but funny, yesterday you couldn't resist the impulse to purchase cigarettes too when you filled your tank with gas. You haven't opened the cellophane yet; they remain a morbid fixation. Filling your lungs doesn't tempt you the way blowing out a mouthful of smoke does. You don't fantasize about lighting up a cigarette; you fantasize about extinguishing one on your own flesh.  
  
Don't, you think.  
  
I dare you.  
  
Don't.  
  
You shake it off and slink into bed. Four hours until the alarm goes off.  
  
12:00 pm. Dixon announces it's time for a lunch break. You linger behind as everyone else files out of the briefing room. You'd meant pick up lunch at a sandwich and salad shop before work this morning, but you forgot. You've never cared for the cafeteria food, and you prefer to eat at your desk these days anyway. You wish you'd brought your headphones so you could just zone out and forget everything for an hour. You relax your shoulders and focus on a spot on the wall, and it turns out you can hear the music in your head just fine.  
  
Half an hour later you're disrupted from your reverie. "Sydney?" Human touch. A hand rests on your thigh. You clench your jaw and strain your eyes before you turn and face him. You're met with a furrowed brow, a somber expression, and gorgeous green eyes teeming with concern. You're so lost you can't move. "Sydney?"  
  
You feel like Vaughn's been emotionally yanking you around a bit lately. Just yesterday he gave you a blatant cold shoulder, now this? Maybe your perspective is skewed. You really don't know anymore. You don't know if you want to slap him or crawl into his lap for the warm hug you desperately need right now. "Sydney?" His voice is more tender this time, but conspicuously unsettled. God, you think, you're frightening him. What's more f***ed up? That you're so transparent, or that you feel guilty about it. Now there's a second hand on your knee. You still haven't mustered the will to speak. Your airway seems to have constricted to a quarter of its normal size. 


End file.
